


Skyrim Ship One-shots

by praeeunt



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Multi, Romance, collection, mild sexy times, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praeeunt/pseuds/praeeunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short stories about the various ships of Skyrim. Will consider adding more and/or taking requests once finished with these. Chapter One: Rikke and Ulfric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skyrim Ship One-shots

“You are a woman of Skyrim, Rikke.”

The legate fixes her steely eyes on him, lips pursed. Ulfric, hand on her chest, trails his thumb gently in a line down the valley between her breasts. His calloused skin is cold, but she does not flinch.

“A true daughter of the Motherland,” he says. His dark eyes drift upwards to meet hers, and she looks fiercely to his gaze without hesitation. He presses his lips to the hollow of her throat.

“As beautiful,” he continues, “and as delicate, as her valleys and rivers.”

Her breathing hitches.

“But as strong and as fearsome as her mountains and seas.”

“Ulfric,” she says, voice hard, her hand moving upwards to curl into his hair. “I’m a human being. Your eloquence does not extend to this.” She moves her other hand down to where his is wrapped around her waist and links their fingers together, expression flat as he smirks at her.

“We are invincible, Rikke,” he tells her, kissing her knuckles gently. “Skyrim has never let her people down. The Dominion won’t know what hit them.”

“The only invincible thing here, Ulfric, is your optimism.”

His jaw clenches and his sharp brow furrows, but Rikke’s response is nothing but gentle and loving. She pushes his dirty blonde hair behind his ears and brushes her thumbs across his cheekbones. When she speaks, her voice is a murmur. “It never ceases to amaze me.”

He grunts, letting his head drop to the crook of her shoulder. She sighs in defeat, and her fingers slide into his hair, moving slowly and tenderly to massage his scalp. “Although,” she says, tone dry, “as resilient as your optimism is, your pride is more easily wounded than a High Elf’s intelligence.”

Ulfric snorts. She rolls her eyes.

“I swear to Talos,” she mutters, “you men can call us fragile all you want, but your egos shatter like glass.”

“One day,” he says, ignoring her blatantly much to her irritation, “we will be free people. And Skyrim will have the empire she deserves, and we can live and love as the Thalmor will so terribly try to stop us from doing so now.”

Rikke’s voice has hardened when she asks him, “Do you think so?”

He moves his lips to her throat, kissing her skin deeply and wetly.

“More than anything. When victory is ours,” he says, letting his deep, gravelly tones resonate through her like the low beating of a drum, “I guarantee that you will rule Eastmarch by my side as a free citizen.”

His kiss is brought up to her mouth and with his hands on either side of her head, he pushes her down into the mattress for a round two. She complies with an appreciative moan.

“To Skyrim,” he breathes into the kiss.

“To the Legion,” she mouths against his lips.

* * *

 When she learns from Tullius that Ulfric has been captured, she does everything in her power to try and get him back. As she stands before her fellow legate in the Legion headquarters of Cheydinhal, fists burning against the icy cold stone table, Galmar Stone-Fist screams and howls at Tullius in desperation for his Jarl. Tullius is adamant; the retaking of the Imperial city is priority, and General Jonna’s orders are clear – no supplies are to be wasted.

Accepting her duty to the Legion, Rikke clenches her jaw and grits her teeth and swallows down the lump in her throat as a war of their own rages around her, but she does not cry. When she gets to her quarters that night, she allows herself to weep, but it is not for Ulfric, she tells herself. It is for the people of Tamriel, and the freedom that was stolen from them.

As much as she believes it, her heart tells her otherwise.

* * *

The Great War, at it has been named, is over. A stalemate, the outcome, though she had expected nothing more; as the odds were stacked irrevocably against them, they are lucky it isn’t worse. Tullius is General of the Fourth Legion and they are awaiting orders in Cyrodiil, while in the Empire, the Aldmeri Dominion positions themselves smugly in their ‘rightful’ seats of power.

When she hears that the Jarl of Windhelm has returned to his throne, she is too surprised to be happy about it – Ulfric Stormcloak has been left for dead, and the fact he isn’t comes as too much of a shock. It’s relief that lets her shoulders sag and pulls her lips up into a half-smile, but she doesn’t dare name what it is that has her stomach in knots.

She does not try to contact him.

* * *

Ulfric has reclaimed Markarth from the Reachmen, and at first, Rikke is proud. This is it, she thinks, I will return to my homeland and reunite with him there. But then she hears about the law, and about Talos, and as much as she wishes it wasn’t the case, her stomach curls in frustration. It’s not _fair,_ she _knows_ , but it’s necessary and Ulfric doesn’t seem to have realized that. They send a garrison from the Fourth Legion into Skyrim but Ulfric denies them entry to the city. Rikke feels that this is the start of something bad, because if there is one thing about Ulfric that really is invincible, it is his stubbornness.

Rikke declines to go with the garrison.

* * *

When she hears that the Jarl of Windhelm has returned to prison, Rikke is not surprised. All she really feels is disappointment. It is not a life sentence, or even more than a few years, but she knows that it won’t be over when he comes out. Nothing is ever over, with Ulfric.

* * *

Twenty five years later and Ulfric murders the High King Torygg, declaring himself as the rightful King of Skyrim. He has a band of followers supporting him called the Stormcloaks, and out of everything, this surprises Rikke the least. Ulfric was always going to be the type of man to name an army after himself.

The Fourth Legion are posted in Skyrim to quell what, in Cyrodiil, has come to be known as a rebellion. Civil War is on the horizon and they know it, but only Rikke seems to fully understand what this means. She is getting old, and she does not want to fight.

When she agrees to accompany Tullius, she knows that it’s Skyrim she’s doing it for.

* * *

They are at High Hrothgar, to negotiate the peace treaty with the Greybeards and their Dragonborn, Jórunn. The girl is small and young and overall pretty unimpressive, but she can persuade and bargain better than a Bosmerian merchant. Over the table, Ulfric does not look at Rikke. His stormy eyes are fixed on the Dovahkiin, even when it is Rikke’s turn to speak, and he acknowledges her with only the briefest and curtest of nods and responses.

As they leave, his eyes meet hers and for the first time in twenty six years, her breathing hitches. She stares back at him, throat dry, but he is looking at her with little more than contempt and repressed rage. Her expression hardens and she looks away first, determined to be the better person – with everything going on, she can think of nothing pettier.

This is the last time they meet under peaceful circumstances.

* * *

Up ahead, Windhelm’s massive structure looms imposingly over the legion. The blackened, starless sky is illuminated by the blood red glow of flaming projectiles, and beneath their feet, the snow melts away into the soil, clean and pure. Through the throng of troops, Rikke can see the silhouette of a man stood before the gates of the city, but she doesn’t need the flashes of orange above him to know he who is. Part of her wants to call out to him, try and negotiate, at least do _something_ to try and persuade him that there is another way, but she doesn’t. She can’t.

Malice, that’s what they call it. Greed and selfishness, revenge, anger – lust for power. Nobody in the great and magnificent moral righteousness that the Empire likes to call the Empire could ever even begin to fathom a reason other than these as to why Ulfric did what he did, but she knows that none of them are true. Not even a little. In the end, Ulfric is blinded by the thing he values above all else – loyalty.

She is clinging precariously to the edge of duty as she contemplates talking Tullius out of trying to execute Ulfric, but her train of thought is brought to a halt as the General slams the Imperial flag into the ground and screams into the snow, “For the Empire! For the Legion!”

Without a choice, Rikke runs blindly forwards into battle, screaming. Something at the back of her eyes is stinging, but she knows that it’s not the cold.

She blinks it away.

* * *

“Secure the door,” spits Tullius, eyes on one thing only as he draws his sword – the man clad in fur lounging on his seat of stone, at the end of a hallway that feels miles long.

Rikke draws her own weapon, responding determinedly, “Already done, sir.” She keeps her gaze fixated on the General, not daring to glance at Ulfric, because she knows that it’ll be so much harder if she does.

Fearlessly the pair of them make their way down either side of the long, wooden table, shadowed only by Leorn, the ex-Companion who somehow managed to make it to Legate in a matter of months. After all that he has done for the Legion, it seems only fitting that he joins them.

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” Tullius calls as they near him, voice laced with hatred and disgust. “You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. It’s over.”

Ulfric merely looks to him, expression flat. He disregards Rikke as if she isn’t even there, and graces Legate Leorn with only a glance. She stares at him and for the first time she feels certain that her stomach is twisting with hatred, but there is something else there that this time, she isn’t going to deny.

It’s pity.

Galmar draws the battleaxe from his back, glaring at her hatefully from under his bear hide cloak. Even after all of these years, his deep, scratchy voice is as ridiculous as she remembers it. “Not while I’m still breathing, it’s not.”

For some reason she can’t explain – and she can feel Leorn’s eyes boring quizzically into her back – Rikke sheathes her weapon and relaxes from her fighting stance. “Step aside, Galmar,” she commands, hating herself more and more with every second that passes, “We’re here to accept _Ulfric’s_ surrender.”

“I’ll never surrender Skyrim into the hands of a corrupt and dying Empire,” Ulfric tells her, and she flinches, hoping desperately that he cannot see the fear in her eyes. She can hardly believe herself when her response rings strong and confident.

“Skyrim doesn’t belong to you, Ulfric.”

“No,” he snarls, and she can feel the hatred oozing from his words – “But I belong to her.”

She breathes in sharply, but before she can even try and think of a reply Tullius yells, “Enough!”

Rikke draws back, teeth grit, and readies her hand on the hilt of her sword. It’s coming and she can feel it but she is helpless to do anything about it.

“You are traitors and you will die traitors’ deaths! Stand down and face public execution, or advance and face summary execution by my hands. It matters little to me – either way, I’ll be sending your heads back to Cyrodiil.”

“Well,” asks Galmar, rocking almost impatiently back and forth on his heels as the battleaxe is twisted between his hands, “What are we waiting for?”

She redraws her weapon, moving to stand beside Tullius. Leorn does the same. Everything stops in a horrible standstill, and she can feel her certainty growing rapidly more unsteady, but then Ulfric rises fiercely to his feet and Tullius shouts, “For the Emperor!” and then they are charging forwards and everything snaps into motion.

 _“No!” she commands, grounding her feet into the slab stones and sheathing her weapon resolutely. “Are we all too blind to see that this is exactly what the Thalmor wants? War? Chaos? Vulnerability? Ulfric, they_ tortured _you. They lied to you and hurt you and then let you escape. The Dominion has never disagreed with Talos before, and yet they ban him now, right when the Empire is at its weakest. A rebellion is exactly what they were after and they used you because you let them._

_“Ulfric, you’re better than this. I know you are. Join forces with us and we can defeat the Dominion once and for all, and then Skyrim can be great again. The Dragonborn has returned. There is hope for us yet._

_“Please, both of you, please just_ listen _to me!”_

* * *

 “Talos be with you, Ulfric.”

* * *

At night, the Hall of Kings is empty. The embers of torches are glowing in their braziers and the great windows are shrouded in inky black. Only two guards stand by the doors – for the first time, they are clad in red.

Legate Rikke’s dull, padded footsteps echo dimly off the stone walls as she walks down the chamber, hair down, wearing loose, cotton robes. It’s a nice feeling, for your skin to breathe, after being suffocated in leather and metal for so long. The air of Windhelm is cold against her flesh, and the soles of her bare feet are burning against the stone floor.

At the head of the room, there is a throne. At its foot, the ground is still stained by a faint red. The cool air smells of death and defeat, and Rikke is breathing through her mouth. When she reaches it, she extends an arm and runs a finger slowly down its side, and although its rough surface is cold, she does not flinch. Draped over the seat is a freshly washed fur cloak, but it still smells of everything Rikke once loved.

The rich, musky smell of earth, of berries and mead, and the pine forests of Skyrim as they lie dormant in the snow. It is the smell of a man of Skyrim.

It is the smell of Ulfric.

Breathing slowly, Rikke lowers herself into the kingless seat, running her fingers tentatively over the soft fur. A lump forms at the back of her throat and she chokes back a sob, repressing still the tears and feelings from the past twenty six years. Although, she thinks, burying her face in her hands, they’ve never been as bad as this.

Oh Ulfric, she thinks, resting her head against the arm of the throne and inhaling his scent into her bones. She falls asleep like this, his cloak soaking up her tears.

It had to be you.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still working on TTDE, but I had inspiration for writing this that just wouldn't go away. I'll probably post the next chapter for that this Saturday - fingers crossed. Please let me know what you think!


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